


For You I'd Wait 'Til Kingdom Come

by notoneforreality



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Immortal Merlin, Immortality, M/M, Modern Era, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13921860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoneforreality/pseuds/notoneforreality
Summary: Merlin spends nearly one and a half thousand years drifting through life waiting for England to need her king again. When two world wars pass with no sign of Albion’s greatest hope, Merlin’s own hope fades. Then America elects a sociopath, and Merlin sees a familiar head of blond hair in the pub.(Title from the song 'Til Kingdom Come by Coldplay)





	1. Chapter 1

Merlin spends nearly one and a half thousand years drifting through life. He dabbles in politics and world history but mainly stays on the fringes and does what he can to help those who need it. He has always been a servant, and until his master rouses from his –frankly interminable – nap, he serves the people. Mostly, he tries to stay as close to the Merlin that waited on his King, and merely moves on when it gets suspicious but, in some cases, he lets himself grow at a human rate and simply reverts back when he leaves once the crisis is averted. Besides that, it is only when necessity forces him to take a form that mortals deem old enough to be respectable that he allows himself to grow older than his King was when he last saw him.

Humanity is a frightened, skittish thing, and Merlin casts his eye over it with less judgement and more weariness.

At the turn of the millennium, Merlin returns to England and finds work as a new professor in the first university that will have him, teaching history. He sighs over the textbooks and teaches apart from them as much as he can, telling the true events if he was there, or the truest version if he was close. He tells his students he’s invested in the past and leaves it at that.

He lets himself stay there and age for three years, then moves on.

Never older than his King if he can help it.

The next university that takes him on is further east than Plymouth – where he landed on the first day of the second millennium. A voice that he would usually attribute to someone like Gaius or Gwen notes the vaguely London-bound trajectory. After the three years here, he goes all the way to Newcastle next just to spite them.

For all his sixth century vocabulary likes to make an appearance when Merlin is tired or frustrated, he is up to date with the world, and that includes the new social media phenomenon sweeping the world wide web. He keeps one eye on the internet and another on his students’ assignments and multitasks with the sort of alacrity that only over a thousand years on earth can lend a person.

Merlin moves southwards from there, in two different universities, the second closer to London than the first, until something in his stomach that silences the voice in his head tells him he needs to go to the city. It’s the year 2015, and the globe is bubbling beneath the surface again.

So he goes to London to keep an eye on things, the same way he came to London to keep an eye on things in 1910 and 1935. There are many more important places he could be, but when the very wind is whispering danger, it feels better to be on home ground – or, as close as he can get. He has not drifted westward towards the memory of Albion’s old capital in a long while, but London will do for now.

He does not expect to see The Once and Future King, because there have been seismic shifts in world history larger than this with neither hide nor hair of Albion’s great protector.

Nevertheless, he does things differently in London because he always does. He looks a little younger and applies for a post-graduate student position in the university rather than a teaching position, and finds flatmates on the uni’s social platform. The students were always the first to believe in big news, and therefore the first to spread it.

He spends the first year networking and finds that the history nerds on his course want to be his friend for the wealth of information he offers and the English nerds on the Literature course want to be his friend for his storytelling prowess. He doesn’t tell either of the groups that his knowledge isn’t second hand and his use of the first person pronoun isn’t poetic licence.

Mostly, it’s all good. Merlin keeps his head down working for PhD number whatever-it-is-by-this-point and keeps his ear to the ground for any news. It isn’t until the last few weeks of the year that anything interesting happens: Donald Trump announces his presidential campaign. There is some confusion, much derision, and much scoffing. Merlin holds his tongue and watches warily the same progression of events he has seen many times before with many different people in many different places.

He spends the summer in South America and returns without even a hint of a tan to prompt questions from his mates.

The second year is when things get really interesting. Merlin tracks the progress of the presidential race in the States and the progress of his grades in the university. When Trump is elected, he is dismayed but not surprised. The election, however, means it’s getting close to the Christmas holidays.

Merlin does not celebrate Christmas – has not celebrated any religion but the old one he was born with, however long ago it might be, and however alone he may be in doing so. This does, however, mean he has no obligations that can keep him from Billy’s ebullient and enthusiastic planning of a Christmas Eve eve pub crawl.

There are many problems with this. Most are readily available any time Merlin is asked about his opinions on nights out: money, alcohol-induced amnesia, hangovers, etc. The usual protestations.

The last, and most pressing issue only becomes apparent in the third pub.

Fia crashes into Merlin from behind when he stops dead, but she’s had enough alcohol for her to find it hilarious instead of annoying. Most of the others have gone ahead, and she weaves tipsily over to join them, but Morrigan lingers long enough to frown at him, brows furrowing in an easily interpreted question of whether he’s okay. Merlin waves her on, and returns his gaze to the tall blond man sat alone at the bar. She manages two steps before he grabs her back again.

“Tell Billy and the others I’m going to hang around here for a while and not to worry about me.”

Her eyes follow his imperfectly and drop onto the woman two seats across from the object of his distress. She leers slightly. “An old flame?”

“Something like that,” Merlin says, then waits for her to regroup with the others before he nods in their direction and heads towards the bar.

His scan of the bar yields nothing too exciting and he settles on Guinness, slipping into the seat between the man and the woman while he waits for his drink. Then, when his drink arrives, he makes a convincing imitation of accidentally sloshing the glass, dark liquid and cream foam splashing onto a long coat and light jeans that don’t belong to him.

“God, sorry,” Merlin says, and the man turns bright eyes on him. He flags down the bartender for some tissue. “Name’s Merlin, sorry for the spill, I’ll get that for you.”

“No worries. I’m Arthur,” Arthur says, as though Merlin hasn’t known that for a hundred mortal lifetimes and more. “And don’t worry about the clothes, I’ve got a woman who knows how to get any sort of stain out.”

Merlin still sort of dabs at the patches of wet – mostly ineffectually – and uses the opportunity to survey Arthur’s face. There’s a smile on his lips but the corners of his eyes are smooth and Merlin bites back a sigh because he knows that smile. It’s the same smile he wore in court when no one was listening and nothing was going right but he had to be polite. Merlin wonders where he learned it this time.

“Well I can’t very much leave you covered in Guinness without paying you back somehow,” Merlin says with a grin instead of any number of things that crowd on his tongue. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, but his glass is nearly empty and he agrees easily enough. Merlin doesn’t order another for himself because he didn’t let _that_ much go over Arthur, so he just asks for another of whatever Arthur had before. The bartender obviously isn’t very good at his job because he has to squint first at the glass and what’s left in it, then at Arthur, who rolls his eyes and names the beer.

Talking to Arthur is easy, because this is a game Merlin has played before – do something stupid in front of Arthur and somehow acquire his interest and attention anyway.

“What are you doing out at a bar on your own two days before Christmas, anyway?” Merlin asks. Arthur’s perfect smile slips for barely a second before it’s back again and brighter, like an inverse correlation between how unsettled Arthur is and how brilliant and beaming is smile is.

“Just taking some breathing time before I get swamped by the family. You know how the holiday is.”

Merlin does know how the holiday is, second-hand.

“Not a huge fan of the family?”

“Not particularly. A small dysfunctional unit playing pretend over family dinner is not generally appealing,” Arthur says, then frowns. “Why did I tell you that?”

“I’m an easy man to talk to.” Merlin grins. “Hey, I should get back to my friends, but if you’re around after Christmas I can give you a story for a story.”

There’s a pause, during which Arthur assess Merlin, who pretends his heart is not slamming itself against his ribcage in an attempt to get free. Slowly, the corner of Arthur’s lip twitches up into the beginnings of a real smile.

“Sounds intriguing. For now, how about a number for a number.”

They exchange numbers and Arthur drains his drink.

“I should get going, too. See you around, Merlin.”

Merlin watches him leave, then does not get back to his friends. Instead he goes back to his flat and curls in his bed, elated at the idea of finally finding Arthur, and crushed under the blank unrecognition in Arthur’s eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur calls three days after Christmas. Merlin’s on his phone when the name comes upon the screen, but it still takes him two thudding heartbeats to answer it.

“Merlin, at you service.” _In more ways than one, forever_ goes left unsaid.

“Ah, Merlin, I was wondering if you wanted to meet. Your promise of stories sounds much more promising than sticking around here for one more day.” Arthur’s words are of complaint, and doubtless of more truth than he’d intended to share, but his voice is much more chipper and genuine than the night in the pub. Merlin smiles.

“Oh really? Well, like I said, I only give stories for stories, so as long as you’ve got something prepared then we’re all good to go.”

There’s a brief pause, then: “Alright, I’ll bite. Meet back at the Lion’s Mane at eight?”

It’s five now. Merlin runs his mind over what work he has left to do and relegates all of it to tomorrow at the earliest. “Sure, I’ll see you there.”

“Try not to be late,” Arthur says, and the familiarity of it makes Merlin falter. The cut connection beeps in his ear but he doesn’t move, just tells himself that he was absolutely imagining the warmth of knowing that was in Arthur’s tone, as though he knew Merlin had been late for him before.

He breathes and drops his hand, setting the phone on the arm of the chair. For all the work he can leave until tomorrow, there are still chores that he can and should do now. They take his mind off of more dangerous topics and, by the time he’s getting dressed to go out, the phone conversation’s only curiosity was the fact that it had happened at all.

He’s late, of course. Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever actually made it to an outing on time in his life. Billy and the others have gotten used to it by know, but Arthur’s waiting at the bar with a raised eyebrow and an expression that can’t decide whether it’s amused or annoyed. The thought flickers across his mind, briefly, that he really has more claim than Arthur to complaining about the other party being late. If Arthur had waited ten minutes, Merlin’s waited all ten decades.

It’s gone before he can process it properly, chased away by Arthur’s arm on his asking if his is a Guinness. Once they both have their drinks, Arthur turns to him properly.

“My friend said she’s heard of you,” he says out of nowhere. Merlin sets his drink down and cocks his head. “She says you’re the stories guy.”

“I told you stories are my thing,” Merlin says, slightly lost.

“Okay but how does it work? Story for a story, right? Do I go first or do you go first?”

Merlin considers Arthur. Thinks of his old pride and wonders how much has overflowed into this century. Arthur’s eyes are still blue and shattered but there’s no Camelot to attribute it to, now, and Merlin wonders how long he’s been looking for an excuse to talk.

“You go first, if you’re okay talking here. Or we could find a booth that’s out of the way and talk there?”

Merlin watches with wide eyes as Arthur downs close to a pint, gestures for another, then grabs the drink and Merlin’s arm to drag them to a table tucked into the back corner of the pub. When they sit, Arthur takes another drink for fortitude, and starts his story.

“No one really knows where I came from. I was in a care home for a while and one of the social workers said I just turned up on the doorstop one morning with nothing but an oversized red blanket. It’s not the best place and they have a list of names for boys and girls who don’t have one when they arrive that they use on rotation. I should have been Oscar. But Jake said he picked me up and said Arthur before anyone even knew what was happening, and I opened my eyes and reached my hand up to touch his face. Which—” Arthur hastens to add with a sideways glance at Merlin as though he thinks he would laugh—“is a stupid sappy story, but he won’t tell it any other way. So I was Arthur, Arthur de Bois because that was the name of the first kid there so they just stick it on all of us.”

Merlin hides his face in his drink so Arthur can’t see the shock of recognition the name jolts in him.

“I was there for twelve years, until a woman called Morgan came along and said she and her wife wanted to adopt one of the older kids because she was in the system and she knew it was harder for us to get out. She spoke to everyone over ten, but when she came out of the office, Jake told me to go get my things because I was leaving. And I’m grateful that she adopted me and everything, but the LeFay-Penn— Shit, Merlin, are you alright?”

Arthur jumps back as Merlin spits his Guinness all over the table.

“Fuck, sorry, again. I seem to have a habit of doing that.” Merlin grabs napkins from the holder on the table and scrubs at the liquid, trying to supress his coughs as he attempts to not choke on what little of his drink he actually swallowed. Arthur’s still looking at him like he thinks he might keel over and die so Merlin lies. “I tried to drink the same time I hiccoughed. Nothing too dangerous. Continue the story.”

He manages to hide his shock much better as Arthur explains that he loves living with his mothers, the family life is slightly strained because the LeFay family on Morgan’s side and the Penn family on Gwendoline’s side are more than slightly homophobic, which leads to stressful family occasions. Which is why Arthur’s not a fan of Christmas.

Merlin tries to make the appropriate noises in the appropriate places, but his mind is too busy exploding at the idea of Morgana and Gwen together and _parenting Arthur_. Sure, it wasn’t like they didn’t parent him at Camelot, but that was the sort of friendly mother hen routine. Not officially his parents. There’s also the fact that Merlin wasn’t expecting anyone else from Camelot to be around. There had never been any mention in the old texts about others being reincarnated besides Arthur. And the ages are wrong in relation. Merlin’s head hurts. He’s often felt as though the universe is laughing at him, but never so strongly before.

Merlin manages to articulate a question about Morgan and Gwendoline that doesn’t make Arthur suspicious, and he answers cheerfully enough.

“Yeah, they’re both really old families and both name for ancient ancestors. Apparently, Penn used to be Pendragon, until someone thought it sounded like bullshit and ditched the dragon part. I don’t know, I think it would be cool to be a Pendragon.”

 _You have no idea_ , Merlin thinks, then, _he has no idea._ If Arthur notices the shift in Merlin’s mood, he doesn’t say anything.

“Well, that’s my story,” Arthur says. “What have you got?”

“One thing you need to understand, is that most kings are idiots,” Merlin begins. “I’d go as far to say they’re all idiots, but some are more tolerable than others. I have one particular favourite king but I shan’t be telling you anything of him, so don’t ask any questions. The same rules generally go for queens, too, but I’ve noticed they often have a slightly better head on their shoulders than their male counterparts. One of the more stupid kings I’ve met was James I.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He flags down a waitress for another round of drinks, then makes himself comfortable in his seat to hear the rest of the story.

“I was living in London in 1604…”

Arthur lets Merlin talk, uninterrupted, until his story about James and George and England is through. He doesn’t question it afterwards, either, and they fall into an easy conversation about their lives at the moment. Arthur is studying business so he can help Morgan and Gwendoline in the high-fashion dress-shop they own in the middle of London. Merlin makes a joke about him not studying fashion design and Arthur regales him with a list of all the disasters that have befallen him in attempts to emulate his mothers’ talent at sewing.

They drink until someone rings the bell at the bar and jerks them out of their comfortable bubble of conversation, startled at how late it is. Merlin has work in the morning and Arthur’s seeing his mothers again, but he promises to stop at the café where Merlin works afterwards.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur keeps his promise. Merlin flicks a wave at him in between taking money and a name and shouting the order at Leo who’s distracted making eyes at the boy he swears he’s not talking to. Arthur laughs and joins the queue, infinitely less entitled in this life than the last. When he reaches the front, Merlin has an absurdly sweet drink ready for him, and Arthur’s face when he takes it without question and gulps back a good portion makes Merlin’s day.

It makes the next day, too. The day after that is a Saturday, and then it’s New Year’s Eve and Arthur joins the group Billy has rounded up for the pub crawl this time.

On Tuesday it’s back to work and Arthur is there the same time as last time, just before the lunch rush.

They fall into a routine. Merlin greets Arthur every morning with a new horrific concoction that Arthur throws back without hesitation. Sometimes Merlin has pity and hands him something nice, but it’s rare enough that Leo’s taken to grabbing his phone when he spots Arthur so he can take a picture of whatever face he makes today. He shows his boy, who’s name is apparently Gavin, who demands to be friends with Arthur immediately. They claim a table in the corner and gossip together like old wives until Merlin and Leo swap with George and Percy at the end of their shift.

Wednesday night is pub night, just Merlin and Arthur. Sometimes Arthur tells a true story about himself or his family or his few friends. Sometimes he spins a tale so convoluted he’ll forget where he’s going with it or where he started until he gives up and says ‘the end’ in the middle of a sentence. Merlin always tells true stories, and Arthur never calls him out or says he’s lying. Merlin doesn’t expect him to believe, to understand, but he likes that Arthur pretends anyway.

University starts again and their routine shifts but doesn’t die. Arthur comes later, after his morning lecture, and they don’t stick around afterwards because Merlin has his own seminars and lectures to get to. They fall together the same way they always have, two sides of the same coin, and they get close enough that other people notice. Neither of them care particularly much.

Sometimes Merlin catches himself wishing their jeers and hinting eyes were correct, but he’s had enough practise pushing that to the back of his mind that it doesn’t affect anything.

The months roll past and suddenly it’s Arthur’s birthday. It’s disorienting to celebrate rather than hide away after so many years of the day having painful memories. Merlin wakes early to remember Ygraine and Uther for Arthur’s sake, and the familiarity of the annual tradition throws him as he automatically begins a blessing for Arthur before remembering he’ll be at the café later and they’re going out for drinks in the evening with Leo, Gavin, and Arthur’s friends Lance and Elliot.

The night goes well, and Merlin sleeps easy for the first time on that date in centuries, but the morning feels strange. The air feels a strange sort of electric that Merlin usually associates with magic. He hasn’t used magic in a while, though, even more careful now than Arthur is back — certainly more careful that he was the first time he had Arthur. He likes to think he’s older and wiser, now, and saving it for the next time Arthur needs it.

The next peculiarity is the passing of the entire lunch rush with no sign of Arthur. Leo frowns at Merlin and Gavin even comes up to ask about him. All Merlin can do is shrug. Leo narrows his eyes and shoves Merlin to the side, taking over the customer interaction, a job he usually hates. Merlin smiles at him gratefully and promises a drink on him next time they go out.

Their shift is nearly finished when Arthur comes barrelling through the doors and fairly launches himself across the counter. Merlin catches him because he always will, but he stumbles backwards with the force and the surprise, dragging Arthur even further over the counter. Leo and Gavin are staring, the customers are staring, Arthur’s shoulders are shaking, and Merlin freezes until Leo grabs Gavin and drags him behind the counter, saying they’ve got it covered at the same time as he shoves Merlin out of the way. Somehow he manages to get around the counter without disturbing the way Arthur’s arms are clamped around him. Leo and Gavin shoo Merlin towards the door and Merlin decides they deserve an entire night out on his wallet for this.

Outside, Merlin finds a bench for them to sit at, and it’s only once they’ve stopped to breathe that he realises his shoulder’s wet.

“Arthur? Arthur what’s wrong?”

Arthur doesn’t respond. Merlin adjusts their position on the bench so he can hug Arthur back properly, and forces out the voice in his head that says _finally Arthur’s in my arms_ and _what are you doing, this has never been your relationship with Arthur_ at the same time.

Merlin doesn’t know what to do with this Arthur’s sadness, so he falls back onto old habits. “You’re being a right royal prat, you know.”

Arthur chokes on a sob and Merlin waits for his breathing to steady enough for him to talk. “Not a royal prat anymore,” Arthur says.

Merlin’s chest does something funny that might involve a somersault, and there are tears in his eyes when he breathes, _“Arthur.”_

Arthur’s mostly finished crying now, and he pulls back to look at Merlin. “So, just to be clear, all those stories you told were true.”

Merlin laughs, and if it comes out slightly watery, Arthur doesn’t say anything. “I told you they were.”

“God, Merlin, how could you stand it? All those years.”

“I knew you’d come back eventually.” Merlin sees something shift in Arthur’s face and he hurries to continue. “I’m not lucky enough to get away with not having to deal with you again.”

Arthur smiles. It’s a smile Merlin’s never seen on him before, and it’s unsettling and exhilarating all at once.

“You know, the past few months have been hell for me trying to deal with you, trying to work out your thing. Then I remembered and the first thing I did was come and assault you at your workplace – sorry about that, by the way – and I’m only just having time to think about it.”

“Arthur….”

“Which is probably a good thing because all those years of agony have just added to it and I’m making it worse by talking so just--.”

Arthur’s lips are on Merlin’s. They taste of salt and of old paper and somehow, still, smoke and metal. Merlin let’s himself have this moment for just one single moment before he pulls away.

“Arthur…what--?”

Arthur doesn’t look concerned because he’s always been a cocky bastard, in both his lives. “You do love me, don’t you? I was too stupid to see it before but I doubt it would have mattered. I had to marry Gwen whether I liked it or not, but this time I’ve been constantly second guessing everything I do around you and trying to find out more about you and no one would tell me anything and it was driving me crazy.”

Merlin pulls away further, shaking his head because none of what Arthur’s saying makes any sense. He wonders if perhaps the force of remembering has made Arthur delirious.

“Shit, Merlin no, don’t you understand. Fuck, I can’t--. Merlin, I love you too. Always have, even if I couldn’t show it. So…please come back and kiss me again?”

Merlin stares at Arthur’s open arms, then leans in cautiously. This kiss is sweet with only the slightest tang of salt and laced with promise.

Three hours later, when they’re on the sofa in Arthur’s flat, still slightly dazed, Arthur looks up at Merlin from where he’s laying across his legs.

“How long were you planning on waiting for me to remember?”

“For you I’d wait a thousand years,” Merlin says and grins, because no matter how true the sentiment, the line is infinitely sappy.

“Dolt,” Arthur says, and it’s expected and wonderful and they’re both smiling like prats so nothing matters and everything does.

They go back to watching Blue Planet and everything is quiet for an entire episode. Then, as though it has just occurred to him, Arthur frowns thoughtfully. “Do you still have magic?”

Merlin mutters under his breath and his eyes glow and the lights dim. “Yes, but that’s a story you’ll have to trade for another time.”

* * *

Three hours later, Arthur jerks up, waking Merlin at the same time. There’s a rather horror stricken look on his face and Merlin begins to ask what’s wrong but Arthur is already turning towards him.

“Oh God, _Gwen._ She’s my _mother_.”

“And Morgana,” Merlin says. Arthur’s face twists even more, and Merlin laughs. “Go to sleep, we’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“What about the others?”

“In the morning, Arthur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the morning, they realise there are far more people they know here than they thought. But that’s a story you’ll have to trade for another time.

**Author's Note:**

> well Quentin I guess this is for you now. in return go watch either Lindsey Ellis or Lost in Adaption, kitch.


End file.
